I Found My Leader Crying in the Studio, So I Made Him Mine

The digital clock on the monitor glowed a merciless 3:17 AM. Outside the studio window, Seoul was a distant, sleeping beast, its usual energy muted to a low hum. Inside, the silence was a physical presence, pressing in on Namjoon from all sides. It was broken only by the soft whir of his computer and the rhythmic, mocking blink of the cursor on a mostly empty document.

He stared at the words he’d just written, a single verse that had taken him the better part of two hours to construct. It was clunky, soulless. The rhymes were forced, the sentiment felt hollow, manufactured. With a sigh that seemed to drain the last of his energy, he highlighted the entire block of text and hit delete. The cursor resumed its patient, solitary blinking, a tiny, digital heartbeat in the void he had created.

This was the third night in a row. The fourth? He’d lost count. The deadline for the album’s title track loomed, a shadow that stretched longer with each passing hour. He was the leader, the one they all looked to for direction, for the core message of their music. He was RM, the lyrical genius, the one who could spin words into gold. But right now, he felt like a fraud. The well of inspiration he had always drawn from felt bone dry, and every attempt to dig deeper just left him with fistfuls of dust.

A dull ache settled between his shoulder blades, a familiar companion these days. He rolled his neck, trying to dislodge the knot of tension that had taken up permanent residence there. He thought of the others, likely asleep back at the dorm. He pictured Jungkook’s peaceful face, Jimin and Taehyung probably curled up in their own beds, Yoongi lost to the world, Hobi recharging his seemingly infinite energy. And Jin. He could almost hear Jin’s quiet breathing, the soft sounds he made in his sleep.

The thought brought a pang of something sharp and lonely. They trusted him. They put their faith in his ability to steer this massive, incredible ship that was their life’s work. He couldn’t let them down. He couldn’t let the millions of fans who waited for their music down. The pressure was a physical weight, crushing his chest and making it difficult to draw a full breath. He was supposed to be the pillar, but he felt like he was crumbling from the inside out.

He leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands, the heels of his palms pressing hard against his tired eyes. The screen’s glow seeped through his fingers. He was so isolated here, trapped in this soundproof room with nothing but his own inadequacy for company. Another verse died before it could even be written, another failure logged in the suffocating quiet of the studio. He let his hands fall back to the keyboard, his fingers hovering over the keys, with nothing left to say.

Back in the dorm, Jin stared at the dark ceiling above his bed. Sleep wouldn't come. It had been eluding him for nights, a restless energy buzzing just under his skin that had nothing to do with his own condition and everything to do with Namjoon’s. He knew, with a certainty that had settled deep in his gut, that their leader was at the studio, running himself into the ground. Again.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, the screen flaring to life in the quiet room. He squinted against the light, his thumb immediately navigating to their group chat. The last messages were from hours ago—Jimin sending a funny meme, Hoseok’s string of laughing emojis in response. He scrolled up, his eyes searching for Namjoon’s name. He hadn’t sent a single message all evening. Jin tapped on his profile, his heart sinking a little when he saw the timestamp: Last active 8 hours ago.

He’d been right. Namjoon was locked away in his fortress of self-imposed pressure, starving himself of sleep and, most likely, food. A conversation from two days ago echoed in his mind, his mother’s voice laced with concern. “I spoke with Namjoon’s mother today,” she had said over the phone. “She’s so worried, Jinnie. She says he sounds thin, that he never has time to come home. She thinks he carries the world on those shoulders of his.”

The memory made Jin’s jaw tighten. It was one thing for them, the members, to worry. They saw the daily grind. But for it to reach their parents, for Namjoon’s own mother to feel his struggle from a distance… that was different. That was a line that shouldn’t have been crossed. Namjoon wasn’t just their leader; he was a son. He was their friend, their brother. And he was letting himself waste away in that studio.

A surge of protective determination shot through him, dispelling any remaining hope of sleep. He wasn’t going to just lie here and worry. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. With swift, decisive movements, he opened a food delivery app. His fingers flew across the screen, ordering a large portion of extra cheesy tteokbokki, the kind with fish cakes and sausages mixed in. He added three different kinds of gimbap—tuna, beef, and vegetable. It was far too much food for one person, but he wasn’t ordering for one person.

He confirmed the order, setting the delivery address to the company building. He stood, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie with practiced silence, careful not to disturb Hoseok sleeping soundly in the other bed. Grabbing his keys and wallet from the dresser, he slipped out of the room and padded down the silent hallway. He wasn’t just sending a care package. He was going to deliver it himself and make sure Namjoon actually ate.

The elevator doors opened onto a hallway that was unnervingly still. The only sound was the low hum of the building's ventilation system. Jin used his keycard on the studio door, pushing it open with a soft click. The scene inside was exactly what he had expected, and yet it still made his chest tighten.

Namjoon was slumped over his production desk, his head pillowed on his crossed arms. His silver hair fell across his cheek, and his glasses were slightly askew. Even in sleep, his shoulders were drawn up towards his ears, a clear sign of the tension that had become his constant companion. The computer monitor cast a pale blue light over him, illuminating the faint, dark circles under his eyes. A wave of protectiveness, so fierce it was almost painful, washed over Jin.

He had just set his own keys down when his phone vibrated with a call from the delivery driver. He hurried back out to the main entrance, taking the heavy plastic bags with a quiet thank you. Back in the studio, he moved with practiced stealth, unpacking the containers on the small coffee table by the sofa. The rich, spicy scent of the tteokbokki and the savory aroma of the gimbap quickly filled the sterile air, a warm and welcome intrusion.

Once everything was arranged, he walked over to the desk. He hesitated for only a second before placing a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. “Namjoon-ah.”

Namjoon stirred, a low groan escaping his lips. He lifted his head slowly, blinking in the dim light. His eyes, unfocused and clouded with sleep, took a moment to register Jin’s presence. When they did, a flicker of panic crossed his face. “Hyung? What… what are you doing here? I’m sorry, I must have…” He started to straighten up, his voice thick with sleep and immediate apology.

“Yah,” Jin said, his tone soft but firm, cutting him off. “Do you know what you get when you sleep at your desk all night?”

Namjoon just stared at him, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“A headache,” Jin deadpanned. “And a really, really bad song idea composed entirely of the letter ‘f’ from where your face was on the keyboard.”

For a second, there was only silence. Then, a small puff of air escaped Namjoon’s lips, followed by a low chuckle that grew into a genuine, rumbling laugh. It was a tired sound, but it was real. The tension in his shoulders seemed to melt away, just for a moment. “Hyung, that’s not even a joke.”

“It’s a cautionary tale,” Jin corrected, a wide smile spreading across his own face. He gestured with his head toward the couch. “Now come on. The food’s getting cold.”

Namjoon finally pushed himself away from the desk, stretching with a wince. He followed Jin to the sofa and sank into the cushions, looking at the spread of food with wide eyes. Jin handed him a pair of chopsticks. They ate in a comfortable quiet, the only sounds the soft clicks of their chopsticks against the plastic containers. Jin didn't press him to talk. He just sat beside him, a steady presence in the lonely hours of the night, making sure he ate.